’Twas gold of pleasure without alloy,
To trudge away through the livelong day—
Not a bite to eat, or a word to say,
And never a failing or doubting.
Then home at night in a curious plight—
Heavy and tired and hungry quite—
With a string of the “speckles” hung out of sight,
And a chorus of boyish shouting.
Only a line of the commonest twine,
Only a pole of alder;